Page 63 of The Fixer
She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her eyes soft but searching. “Maybe. But there’s still so much to do. The research that escaped... I have to find a way to neutralize it. And then there’s finishing the work itself, making sure it’s used for good.”
Jake’s expression softened, a mix of admiration and determination in his eyes. “I have no doubt you’ll be able to do that. And I’ll be right here, every step of the way. Whatever it takes.”
They sat in silence for a while, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Lyndsey felt her body relax further, a languid warmth spreading through her limbs. She didn’t even realize she’d spoken until the words were out, quiet and unbidden.
“I love you,” she said, almost to herself. The room seemed to still, her admission hanging in the air. Her eyes widened, and she stiffened in Jake’s arms, panic flooding her veins. “I—I didn’t mean to...”
“Don’t,” Jake interrupted, his voice soft but commanding. His hand cupped her cheek, his eyes locking onto hers. “If you try to take that back, I’ll introduce you to a whole other type of D/s known as discipline.” A nervous laugh bubbled out of her, but it was cut off by the intensity in his gaze. He leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers. “I love you, too, Lyndsey. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”
Her breath hitched, tears spilling over as a wave of emotion crashed through her. She clung to him, her fingers curling into his shirt as he held her close, his presence steady and grounding.
“I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Jake’s lips brushed her forehead, his arms tightening around her. “You’re everything I never knew I needed, Lyndsey.”
The certainty in his voice soothed the last of her doubts, and she melted into his embrace, letting herself believe. As the fire crackled and the world outside faded away, Lyndsey closed her eyes, a small smile curving her lips. For the first time in what felt like forever, she was home.
DANIELS
The first thing Daniels noticed was the silence. It was unnatural, suffocating, as if the air in the alley behind the upscale BDSM club had been sucked out. The glow of the nearby streetlamp cast a faint light over the scene, enough for him to spot the body sprawled against the brick wall. His gut twisted.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, pulling a pair of gloves from his coat pocket. The squad car’s headlights illuminated the area, making the scene feel even more surreal. The Velvet Glove’s signature red neon sign flickered above, a macabre contrast to the lifeless woman lying in its shadow.
The Domme was young—mid-thirties, he guessed—with a cascade of black hair spilling over her shoulders. She wore a sleek leather corset and thigh-high boots, but it wasn’t her striking appearance that held Daniels’ attention. It was the message scrawled beside her, written in what was unmistakably her own blood:“Cerber…”
Daniels squatted beside the body, his trained eyes scanning for details. Her fingers were stained red, her nails jagged and broken as if she’d clawed the pavement in her final moments. A knife wound slashed diagonally across her abdomen, brutal but not precise. She’d bled out slowly.
“She was trying to send a message,” he murmured. His voice was steady, but anger simmered beneath the surface. This wasn’t just a murder—it was a statement.
Detective Harris, a local cop with more years in the field than most, stood a few feet away, his face pale under the harsh glare of the squad lights. “The club manager called it in. Said she wasa member. No ID on her, but the staff recognized her. Said she goes by ‘Mistress Veda.’”
Daniels’ jaw tightened. He’d heard the name before. Veda wasn’t a member of Club Southside but was known in the larger Chicago BDSM scene. She’d had a reputation for playing hard and living harder. She was the kind of person who attracted both admiration and enemies. Clearly, one of the latter had caught up with her.
“Anything else?” Daniels asked, his voice clipped.
Harris hesitated. “Just this.” He held up a sealed evidence bag containing a black leather collar. It was pristine and untouched by blood, as if it had been placed deliberately beside her.
Daniels’ stomach sank. The collar wasn’t hers—Veda didn’t wear one. She was a Domme, not a submissive. Whoever had left it was sending a message, one he intended to decipher.
“Get this to the lab,” Daniels said, rising to his full height. “Prints, DNA, whatever they can find.”
Harris nodded, but his face was etched with worry. “You think this has something to do with Cerberus?”
Daniels didn’t answer immediately. His mind was racing, piecing together fragments of what little he knew.Cerberhad to be unfinished for Cerberus. Cerberus wasn’t just a name—it was a private security organization with ties to the BDSM world. And it was also the name of Reyna Marx’s team. The connection wasn’t just chilling; it was personal.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Daniels said finally. “Whoever did this wanted to send a message. Cerberus is the target, or they want us to think it is.”
Harris rubbed the back of his neck. “You gonna call in your people?”
Daniels nodded grimly. “I don’t think I have a choice.”
Harris grinned. “The Chief and the mayor will be glad to hand this over to the Bureau.”
Reyna was waiting when Daniels arrived. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her expression a mix of concern and barely concealed anger. She was dressed in her standard black tactical gear, her hair pulled back into a tight braid. She looked every bit the capable operative he knew her to be, but Daniels couldn’t ignore the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes when she spoke.
“What the hell happened?” she asked, stepping closer.
Daniels handed her the evidence bag containing the collar. “Mistress Veda. Found dead behind The Velvet Glove. Knife wound. She wrote ‘Cerber’ in her own blood before she died.”